This will be my first entry into this entrapment of one's soul. There was a time I loved to write down my thoughts, hopes, dreams, vices, horrors... All emotion that I could find words to even begin to describe the imagry that played through my mind. Yet, now I have held this leather bound gift of control for many a hands, still not a moment has this quill touched these pages, until.... now.
I know that he will read it, and perhaps that is what scares me more than not...? I am uncertain really what my feelings are about him invaiding my own serenity, my own escape and exposing them. Humliating me? Perhaps a way to control me, break me, shatter anything and all that I am for his selfish arrogant ways? It might be just his way... like the way he said he would beat me until my dettached personality came to an end.
I fear the whip, believe me... what woman would not. All that it means, all that is entails to be caught under the whip. It is more powerful than the pain that rips through your body, more than the marks that score the flesh for days on end, it holds so much that perhaps many miss the meaning. He has not yet taken the whip to me, does not make me believe that he never will, I am sure it would bring him great pleasure trying to break me with the whip. Perhaps even to see me cry.
It baffles me, how hard everyone tries to get a rise out of me, be it tears, laughter... anything. Yet I am without a doubt broken inside and out. Hence why I was always a kettle slave... Still they push and try to draw what I have yet to even realize. Slave... inside and out that I am. A bred one... well that breeding somewhere along the genetic lines has gone a rye... simply because I am nothing like the other girls. I do not blush, I despise giggling... I am not one that will beg to be used.
I do have secret obessions... at least at one point I did. Now I live my life exposed. I long for the days when I ruled the kitchens, and no one bothered me. I was never the display slave to bring merit to a young rarius that had just won some tournament, or the candy for the feet of a slaver to show off his skill in training and fine breeding. No... I was a kettle girl, from the moment I could talk I was learning the ways of Gorean women, by the age of my maturity I was already in a collar, knowing fully inside and out the sensations of being a true woman of Gor, a slave exposed to the whims of men. Yet, something had to be amiss, still I was nothing like the others. I enjoyed my life, my place. I miss the gardens, the way we would put flowers in our hair and listen to the flute girls and just dance in those early moon beams. Even lay out in the rains to feel it wash over our face.
Instead, here I feel like I am more trapped than free. I walk on razor blades daily. Never knowing which way to go, I avoid him... I loathe him. He will never understand me, and he wants me to be something I am not. Or maybe he just loves to shot jibs at me and expect to feel anything but ill towards him. I cannot see any good in a man that is always ready to tear someone apart rather than to seek anything at all about them. Closest I ever got with him was after the first dance... the first time he shared a drink with me, touched my hair and looked at me with interest... since then, nothing. A glimpse of me, and I am pathetic and insufferable. Well so be it, he can rot. True, he will kill me more than likely one day. He has made it clear that he will never sell me, one offer has come up, and it was refused.
Now he has sold my dearest Elsa to the Paga Den. I will see her as much as I am allowed. I am suppose to be trainin the prissy girly Silk to dance, but that coin box slut has not shown her face around me. Perhaps she does not want to please him. Selfish brat! I could pull her hair and sit on her with her face in the sand for not being here to entertain him. And where is Phe!! The En girl of his chain, and she has not been seen either... something is wrong... oh and Gia??? That little ink bitch! I am the one here to see the suffering, which makes me want to run the other way and never, EVER once feel anything like that. I never want my heart to be touched in such a way that everything turns syincal and dark, mean and jaded.
I am not sure where I end up, but I am not liking where I am being placed. Nightly, nightly I am suppose to bathe him and massage him. Spend time with him, and I would rather gouge out his eyes than to try and please a man that makes a Kur look like a lap pet. There is no compassion in him, not that I can see. Just bitterness that is like a poison. I may never show it, but I am not an unhappy woman. Yet, I do it. For I would like to eat, and yes, even if I hate where I am, and I am home sick, to the point where I feel heart broken, I do not want to die. I have a kennel to sleep in, silks to cover up, sandals, ribbons, this bloody journal, oils (which I use so little of... I hate that fake smell some of the girls use) I perfer smelling like spring, or something sultry from the deserts if I am dancing.
I do that often, when I can actually leave him to sleep, I slip outside under the moons and watch them. Watch the light upon my flesh, or durning the mid day, after swallowing gruel with my nose pinched, I work it off in the sands. The drummers love to make new beats so I can challenge myself with. I am still not any good, I would never will anything for this house, but i do not care. I dance because I love it, and then I fear it. It exposes me more than anything. I still cannot find any security here, there will be no helpless moments, no valuernable moments of surrender. I just know he would rip me to pieces and what was left would be nothing of who I am.
